My mother owned a 1999 Ford Taurus
station wagon. The car, purchased by my parents two years before Dad died, came
loaded with options they rarely indulged in when they purchased cars. The
interior’s plush silver-grey upholstery contrasted sharply to all of the years
of the cheap plastic seating of my childhood. Other upgrades included power
windows, an air conditioner that blew Artic cold, and carpet with matching
floor mats, and cruise-control. They even indulged in a cassette player instead
of their basic AM/FM radio.
Dad loved driving this car and my
parents started making longer treks to visit relatives in Illinois and Arizona.
They’d whip down IH-10 between San Antonio and League City every couple of
months. When Dad died, Mom made certain to continue the car payments, and for
the first time in her life owned a vehicle in her own name. Moving to her
apartment in San Antonio meant she drove the car less than two miles to reach
the grocery store, and so the car’s mileage stayed relatively low. When all of
us decided to go to Louisiana, she insisted we take her comfortable car. She
didn’t like driving long distances herself, so any road trips in Texas meant I’d
drive her station wagon.
For the first six months Mom lived
in assisted living, her car sat in the parking lot. We’d use it to get her
groceries or make a run to Sonic. Assisted living put a strain on her monthly
budget, so after a while I suggested we take over her car—change it into my
name so I could pay for the insurance, gas, inspections and repairs. I sold my
own car and used hers to commute to-and-from work. Any time Mom needed to go
anywhere, we still used her car since our Escape stood too high off the ground
for her to climb into, and the RX8 slung down too low. And although I owned the
car on paper, I never thought of it as anything but “Mom’s car.”
As her illness robbed her of the use
of her legs, we all grew to appreciate this station wagon. At first, Mom could
step into the car on her own, but eventually we had to assist her from her
wheelchair into the back seat. Getting her into the car required a pivoting
motion to get her butt-in-chair followed by her lifting her feet into place.
Then she would lean forward and hug the front seat with her arms as someone
else maneuvered her into place and fastened the seat belt. The station wagon provided
plenty of room for her, and I could sling her wheelchair into the back without problem.
Now the car became transport to-and-from doctor’s offices with swings through
drive-through eateries as we searched for the best chocolate milkshake. Mom
loved eating out, and so we’d load her into the car once a week to head for one
of our favorite places.
After Mom died, I used the car less
frequently. If I needed to haul something large, like bags of potting soil, I’d
hop into the station wagon. Eventually, I’d use the car once a week to keep the
battery charged. When the choke started sticking on the car, stranding me a few
times, I began only looping it through our neighborhood once a week figuring if
it stalled, I could still walk home. Nowhere in my mind did it occur to me to
sell Mom’s car, though.
Then sometime last week a reckless
(or drunk?) driver scraped the side of the car, leaving dark paint transfer,
but no note admitting fault. It became obvious that after a year-and-a-half, I
needed to sell Mom’s car. I called my brother and sister to let them know of
the damage to it, and my decision to sell it, but they have no emotional
attachment to the vehicle. My husband and son revealed that the car reminded
them more of those final months of Mom’s life—doctor’s visits and ER runs, than
the wonderful trips to Shreveport.
And so yesterday, I made certain to
transfer the St. Christopher clip Dad had placed on the visor into the jewelry
box that contains his favorite watch and college ring, and then we spiffed up
Mom’s car one last time before taking it to the dealership. It will take me a
long time, I think, before I’ll look out toward the front of the house and not
miss seeing it parked on the curb.
Copyright 2014 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman
